Amakh-ather's Luck
“Metal, plastics, resins, BAH! Filthy Mon’Keighs never learn…” A lone Haemonculi mumbles to himself as he separates the synthetic components from what little scraps of flesh remain on the human servitor that is bound against the wall of a small workshop. “No matter how many centuries I spend tearing these primates apart I will never understand why they choose to replace flesh with such antiquated tech.” The Crafter of Flesh devotes his full attention to the intricacies of trying to cause agony to what has essentially become a biological computer. Around him the cries of several other minor experiments in various stages provide him with a melodic background noise. “Mock me will you? I’ll show every last one of you that there is worth in harvesting the souls of these mon’keighs! Yes, these souls have already been through some of the sweetest of torment, and once I find a way to reap the souls I-“ He cuts his own soliloquy short as the screams and moans of agony throughout his workshop are cut off. “Whose there?” He quickly spins around to face the sole door into his workshop. “How dare you silence my chorus while I work? Present yourself so that I can determine how worthy of a canvas your soul will be in my next masterpiece!” The Haemonculi feels the slightest pressure on his back and spins back into the face of a grinning female Harlequin. “Congratulations ‘Amakh-ather’, crafter of twisted metals, sinew, and bone. The Laughing God has seen fit to allow you one final moment on the stage.” With the swiftness and grace only a harlequin can possess the intruder slips to the ground and dodges the multiple strikes and injections from the Haemonculi before retreating to sit cross legged atop a spikey statue. “Now, now, you must play nice for the time being.” Her head bobs to the beat of an unheard rhythm while she talks. “In a short time an avatar of Cegorach will descend upon this place. He does not know that which truly drives him to this location, but we are sure he will succeed in his task once he sees the gifts we have left in your care.” As the Harlequin jumps down from the statue a rift in the warp opens inside the exposed chest cavity of the servitor and begins to draw in the flesh and steel until it forms into an ancient power sword. Amakh-ather is left standing in an empty workshop, the harlequin and servitor have now vanished (excluding the servitors hands and feet which are now fused into the bindings), and the only remains to show proof of the events are a single relic blade that now stands pierced in the floor of his workshop and for some reason his ears pick up the soft weeping sound of one of the un-mechanized women awaiting him in the slave pens. As he approaches the young human he can’t help but feel an unwanted grin pull at the corners of his mouth. “What is your name Mon-keigh?” “J-j-j-ud…”